


The Saviour (Fingon's story)

by orphan_account



Series: Alternative Perspective Character Studies [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aman (Tolkien), Character Study, Death of Argon, Family Drama, Fingon character study, Fingon's death, Finwean family drama, Finweans, Gay Fingon, Gen, Halls of Mandos, Helcaraxë, House of Finwë - Freeform, M/M, Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Noldor - Freeform, Nolofinweans - Freeform, Oath of Fëanor, PTSD Maedhros, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Russingon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-13 17:16:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13575240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Note: title changed to fit his character type.The Silmarillion, told from the perspective of Fingon from his time in Aman until his death in middle earth.





	1. The gentle musings of an Explorer.

**Author's Note:**

> BUCKLE UP FOLKS I went all out on the Russingon this time instead of just making unsubtle hints because this is set at a different point in time. Sequentially, this first chapter would come a little while before the first chapter of Maedhros', so it's a little different thematically. Also, I was listening to Glass Animals 'Zaba' on repeat while writing this and that album always puts me in some type of mood.

Findekáno liked to go riding alone when he was younger, and that hadn’t changed with time- well, only slightly. He would’ve explored the farthest reaches of Aman on horseback, not sleeping for days on end; it was almost as if the cool air replenished his energy. It tore through his hair and stung his cheeks, but it felt so good. Eventually, though, he had explored every inch of his world, and so he set about walking through the cities, exploring their streets and watching their people. He took Íriss _ **ë**_ with him most days- she too found her energy in the life that places held.

There was one night where she didn’t come, when he was only just past being a child, where he found himself running his fingertips along the smoothly polished stone of the buildings, letting his mind wander.

It wandered to Russandol.

He found it frustrating at first, that whatever he started out thinking of seemed to lead back to him. He couldn’t relax like that, because when he thought about Russandol, he thought about Fëanáro, and then he thought about Fëanáro’s fights with his father, and then how that meant he couldn’t spend nearly as much time with Russandol as he would like. Then he was back to thinking of Russandol again. That night, he’d been out until it was completely dark, and he stared up into the sky, watching the stars above. They were pinpricks of light, puncturing the endless darkness of the void- they were beautiful.

He found himself thinking of Russandol again.

He had gotten frustrated and gone home.

Briefly, there was a period during their adolescence where their families didn’t disagree too badly, and he and Russandol were able to catch up at last. He invited him riding: it seemed like a good idea at the time, and he wanted them to be friends so badly. He had been naïve.  

He spent the whole ride watching him- the way his hair blew out in the wind, precious like the liquid copper dried on his borrowed gloves, or the way his dark eyes seemed to melt in the light, or how he laughed. He looked alive when they rode; he looked like a kindred spirit.

Findekáno had taken the first opportunity to kiss him, of course.

They’d stopped for a moment to watch the clouds, but they were looking at each other more than anything, so he’d leant across the distance between their steeds. They were far enough apart that Russandol would have to close the distance himself, and he did. His lips were so, so, stupidly soft.

They weren’t a good secret: the only people who had no idea what was going on between them were their fathers, and that was for the sake of keeping the peace.

Times changed, things got worse again, but they still met up to ride and to wander the streets together. Sometimes Russandol would bring one of his baby brothers with them and they’d show him all of the places they’d found. Írissë would complain that they never hung out any more, and he’d spend an entire day following her around until she threatened to stab him with her hunting knife. Eventually, she stopped wanting to go with him, instead choosing to spend her time hunting with Tyelkormo.

He still liked to be alone, though.

He had nowhere left to explore, so he’d spend hours at a time sitting still and thinking, investigating every part of his mind, sorting through every single memory. It was a practice his aunt Írim _ **ë**_  had taught him when he was little to sort through his emotions. He liked to be outdoors, but he didn’t like to be disturbed, so he would pretend to be asleep. He tried to feel every single memory as if it was there happening to him again, though that led to tears on many occasions, so rumours were spread that he was having nightmares. It benefitted him, though; his parents stopped talking about disputes with Russandol’s family around him, and people treated him so much more nicely. He decided it was better to let them believe those rumours, though he was forced to go to Russandol for news and he was biased toward his father, despite his claims otherwise.

As they grew up, Findekáno found himself growing quieter- maybe even more so than Russandol, who had always seemed quiet.

 His father found out about them, too, but was too tired to make anything out of it so, whenever Russandol was tired of his brothers, he would come over and join them.

When Fëanáro was told to go into exile, Russandol came over to say goodbye: of course, he was going to join his father. Even if it meant leaving everyone else behind. They spent the time in the garden, talking and drinking until Russandol made a drunken promise that, when this was all over they would get married. It was an unrealistic suggestion, but Findekáno humoured him.

Then he left, and Findekáno was alone with his thoughts again.


	2. Everlasting.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon watches as the Feanorians make some terrible mistakes.

_You should stay at home._

First of all, if he stayed at home, he would have to rely on his father for information and that didn’t seem like the best way to get an unbiased opinion. He knew from Russandol’s letters that their feud was still burning strong.

Second, he was the only one of his family specifically advised to stay home, which seemed unfair. It was either because of Russandol or because of his meditation- both of which were awful reasons to keep him from the fray. He was a good deal stronger than his parents gave him credit for, and he’d prove it to them some day.

Third, he hadn’t seen Russandol in what seemed like literal ages, and he’d take any circumstances he could- that was a lie: not _any._ These circumstances seemed alright, though.

He had not stayed at home.

It was cold and dark- both things were new to him. He had tried to wrap up warm, but there hadn’t been much time, and he hadn’t cared that much anyway. He supposed he was lucky that he didn’t have to experience any of these things first hand, though every street looked like a darkened alley in this light, and every shadow made his hairs stand on end. Arakáno stuck close to his side as they walked, grouped together, all cloaked in navy.

They must’ve looked terrifying.

He didn’t regret it, though.

He had never seen Russandol so still- he was always moving, looking around, braiding and un-braiding his hair, keeping his hands occupied on something (he said it helped him focus). Then he stood completely still, like one of his mother’s statues, staring at a fixed point in the darkness.

“Russandol,” he made sure to keep his voice low- he looked as if he would shatter if startled. Russandol turned his gaze upon him, “how are you holding up?” It felt like a great effort to get the words out, but when he spoke they were as smooth as glass.

Russandol tried to answer, but his voice wasn’t working properly, so Findekáno just supported him and hoped that was what he needed.

He supposed he was lucky he hadn’t been there.

He supposed he was even luckier that it’d been so long since he last saw his grandfather.

Then again, he supposed guilt would come to torture him in the night, for not keeping more contact. Maybe if he asked nicely, he could persuade Este to pre-emptively heal his guilt. After all, there wasn’t much use for it- they weren’t going to let the high king of the Noldor stay dead.

He wasn’t focussing on what Fëanáro was saying, but it sounded angry. He wouldn’t be surprised by that. Surely, he was grieving, though he hid it well. This and that about his stupid pet rocks. They were beautiful, Findekáno supposed, but he had only seen them a couple of times back when things were okay, so he couldn’t bring himself to care too deeply. Russandol seemed to care, though.

This would all blow over eventually, he thought, like it always did.

But the scene changed, and Russandol was no longer at his side. They stood in a circle, with Fëanáro at the centre, holding out his sword- terrible and gleaming in the starlight. He moved to get closer, pulling the hood of his cloak over his face so that no one would see him. They were saying horrible things, promises of destruction and death to put to shame what little they’d already seen. He almost laughed, because they sounded ridiculous. They sounded like they were reciting one of those stupid ‘spells’ he had used to tease Arakáno with over the light of the campfire.  

He was close enough to take Russandol’s hand- to drag him away to somewhere safe. Maybe they _could_ get married. If they did things properly, Fëanáro would be forced to stay in Aman. Or maybe it was too late for that.

He was close enough to hear Russandol.

His voice was the quietest, barely a hum above the sound of the earth. It captivated him for a moment, clearing any thoughts of disruption from his mind as he listened. Everything else became quiet and, for a moment, it was just him listening.

“To the everlasting darkness doom us if our deed faileth,” was what he meant to say, but his voice skipped over the word ‘everlasting’, and he had to repeat himself so that he was out of time with his brothers; he ran the last couple of words together like a child out of time with a nursery rhyme.

It was a mess.

Findekáno mouthed the word over and over, feeling its finality.

Surely the Valar were not so cruel that they would actually agree to that.

But, he had heard the whispers of the crowd about their supposed misdeeds- the ones Fëanáro himself subscribed to. Maybe the Valar would treat their failure with that severity.

Then, by Eru, he would have to make sure they didn’t fail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fingon doesn't hear this part, but Maedhros also completely missed the 'pursue with hatred' line.
> 
> The oath of Feanor is honestly my least favourite part of the book, because it's this horrible, dark promise and it's very clearly the result of Feanor's grief over the death of his father being channelled into an obsession with retrieving the silmarils, but the Valar still hold him to it (though they probably have the power to override or twist the words to allow him some lenience.) It just feels...bad. 
> 
> I know this story's entire purpose is to explore my own headcanons, but I still feel weird about writing in the implication that Fingon made his own oath, too :') There isn't any canon to contradict it, but it still feels weird to add things in.


	3. In the ice we see our fates.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon arrives in Beleriand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter I've written (woo!) and there are three distinct 'sections' to it but it only covers a period of a couple of hours, so I merged it all into one. Also, second upload in one day (double woo!) I have taken some liberties with canon here, however it's nothing major enough to be canon divergence since it has no wider effect on the story, and the lore is inconsistent anyway!

“Father,” his voice was barely more than breath, and even then, it grated like sandpaper on glass. But he would not respond, other than to wave a hand of dismissal. They had been walking for days (months?) and the snowstorm had lasted months (years?) He no longer knew how old he was. He wondered: had his heart gone up in flames with the ships? Had he been angry? Who did he blame?

He couldn’t remember anymore.

He could barely remember his own mother-name.

All he remembered was ice, and snow, and scalding cold winds that sliced through his skin until he killed some poor, unidentifiable creature to wrap its hide around his face. Did things live there? He had no idea. Maybe he had hallucinated everything, because he’d since lost the furs.

Maybe had had hallucinated the warm air that caressed his cheek and coiled around his fingertips, but it brought tears to his eyes.

“Father!” he cried out, mouth shaking too hard to form the word right. He would not answer. “Father!” He almost screamed, getting a mouthful of the storm- coughing until the ice in his lungs turned to water. He wondered how he wasn’t dead yet- drowned in the ice he breathed in.

He couldn’t remember not being cold.

He couldn’t remember his grandparent’s faces.

Hundreds of years to memorise their features and it was all gone, blown away with the blizzard winds. He was regretting it- not mourning at the appropriate time, because now he couldn’t even cry for fear that his tears would turn to ice against his skin. Was that even possible? He supposed that it was there. But he felt grief, nonetheless- grief for his grandfather, but also grief for his company, who he had never truly gotten to know, and grief on behalf of his siblings for their lost friends and loved ones.

When the ice began to crack, you could hear it echo for miles around.

He couldn’t even remember why they kept moving- why they didn’t just submit themselves to the cold and let it end.

Then he felt the warm air again.

“Father!” His voice was more powerful this time, and he felt whatever that heat in his chest was surge.

He turned to face him, waiting for elaboration.

He gestured in the direction he felt the warmth coming from. There was no light to guide them- the stars were hidden entirely by the blizzard. They had to feel their way through.

They corrected their course.

He saw, in the distance, a point of heavily dimmed light.

Light.

Thank Eru, light.

Torch light, too, he realised as they got closer. That either meant people or…something else. He hoped it was people. He hoped, despite his best efforts, that it was the house of Fëanáro.

He allowed himself to think of Russandol: he was hurt, most of all, though he didn’t care. He picked up his pace, unafraid of slipping on the ice. He found old hopes surging inside of him: images of exploration, riding for miles through this new land that awaited them.

He saw people. He could make out few things about them, save that none of them seemed to possess any elven grace.

The torchlight grew brighter, and he found himself running.

These were not people of the house of Fëanáro.

He drew his sword, though it was frozen into its sheath.

He used the ice to slide beneath the raised arm of the first figure and swung his sheathed sword to take its legs out from underneath it. He was sparring. These were sparring moves, with what may as well have been a wooden stick, but at least he knew they were effective.

The torchlight illuminated the being’s face as it turned towards him, and he screamed.

 

* * *

 

The Fëanorian camp wasn’t hard to find, with a bonfire blazing at the centre that cast light for miles in all directions. They had it heavily guarded, with faulty hastily forged weapons and armour littering the ground. He could tell that something was very wrong, and he wanted to run to the encampment to confront them, but he had lost too much blood in the battle when one of the orcs (they must’ve been- he’d only heard stories, though) sliced through his calf. He knew he was lucky not to be dead.

They hadn’t had time to count their dead.

He hadn’t seen Írissë or Arakáno since the fight. Their absences dissolved his insides like acid.

He clung to his father as he helped him limp toward the edge of the lake- he wanted him to clean his wound before anything else happened. His eyes lingered on the fire burning on the other side, wondering if Russandol was beside it. He hoped he was, he hoped he was there, and not dead or- or whatever else there was. He wanted their confrontation so badly that he cried with longing.

Who the hell ever cried because they wanted to argue with someone?

His were ugly, choking sobs, too. No good, no good.

He so wanted to believe that this was the end of their struggles: the next day they’d go to the camp and find Fëanáro and help him get his stupid rocks back and then, then lord, they’d _go home._ His father wrapped his arms around him, stroking his hair.

He hushed him, like a baby wailing for its parents in the night, kissing his head. Then he froze and called out, “Írissë!”

Findekáno felt himself laugh. She was okay, she was okay. She was bathing her feet in the water, watching the stars above. She turned and ran to them, and their father embraced them both. She sobbed though, and he pulled her close, burying his face in the furs of her cloak.

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s- I saw him- he’s dead, he’s dead- I saw him run through with- “

“Who?” their father took her by the shoulders and forced her to meet his eyes- he was trying to be authoritative, but his voice shook.

“Arakáno,” she breathed, and then her eyes moved focus to above them, “look,” she pulled back.

Light, there was light behind them, illuminating the lake with slivers of sliver. He turned and saw a glowing orb of bright, white light. It hurt his eyes to look, but he was too stunned to look away. For a moment he almost believed it was the spirit of his brother come to comfort them.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Macalaurë came on horseback to meet them, dressed in all black and with a silver, wiry crown laid upon his brow.

“Where is Maitimo?” Findekáno had demanded, and his half-cousin had flinched, but he told him everything he needed to know. He told him there were letters- that they’d found them in his tent, locked in a chest, half addressed to Lady Nerdanel, and the other half to _him_. He told him they hadn’t opened them- that they thought that he should be the one to read them first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, the noldor are really dropping like flies, huh? Next chapter should be Fingon's rescue of Maedhros, and then subsequent recovery period. I've taken some liberties with the timeline to give the story more of a thematic hook- in my version of the silm, the host of Fingolfin actually wander around a bit before finding themselves at Mithrim, however this didn't actually serve any narrative purpose (other than realism), so I cut it out. My copy of the silm also implies they arrive as the sun rises, which is contradicted by later texts.
> 
> The Wikipedia timeline, however, I've stuck pretty close to for the sake of having a consistent reference point to work from. Though I have condensed the first two years of the sun into one day, and also before the sun rose- again, narrative purposes. Finally, I had Maglor come to meet them because in the silm they were supposed to strike a deal with the Feanorians without ever?? Actually meeting???? the feanorians?????? Tolkien what?????? Also, Maglor is wearing a crown because he's acting king.
> 
> After this chapter, I'm back onto canon timeframes, with Fingon's wound healing around the time that Morgoth darkens the sky again, so that the (metaphorical, this time) stars align perfectly for him to rescue Mae, filled with determination from his letters! I made sure to note that Maedhros wrote letters to Fingon in his story and, speaking of, if you aren't already you should probably read Maedhros' story to get a more multi-dimensional picture of what's going on! (If you are already, I thank you!)


	4. Small victories.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon waits for Maedhros to wake up after rescuing him from Thangorodrim.

When he’d shut his eyes, Fingon had worried that he wouldn’t open them again. He’s lost so much blood, and he’d been obscured from view with healers and brothers. They all loved him, he could tell, though he wasn’t sure if Maitimo knew it. He sat in the corner of the room while they tried to get him to wake-up, listening to them.

He read his letters over and over, tracing the words with his fingers, trying not to think the worst. Failing not to think the worst- what if he died anyway? This would be all he had left of him. Would he regret what he did?

Never.

At least he’d have died with his brothers at his side and gotten the proper rites.

But he didn’t die.

There were a few moments when it seemed like he might’ve succumbed, but somehow, he always seemed to pull back. Then he stabilised.

_Finno, I’m so sorry-_

_I couldn’t stop him, I’m so sorry…_

Apology upon apology, ranging from delicate cursive to messy scrawl. He’d read them a million times over by then and memorised their contents.

Amras joined him in the corner, away from the throng, pulling his knees up to his chest, “thank you.”

He nodded. He supposed he must’ve spent a lot of time with Amras in Aman, courtesy of Russandol always being designated babysitter. He remembered helping him teach the twins how to hold a sword properly, and how to identify poisonous plants, and how to braid their hair nicely- though they had elected to wear their hair cropped to their chins instead. They said it was easier. He’d taught them all of the things he’s taught Argon when he has a child.

He found himself pulling Amras into an embrace.

He wished he could’ve gotten to know Amrod better, if only he’d cared for learning about people. He wished he could’ve gotten to know so many people better.

“I’m sorry,” he felt Amras’ arms tighten around him. They were never _really_ close. But they were closer, and that counted for something.

It got late, and Amras fell asleep with his head on Fingon’s shoulder. Gradually, the other brothers left to go and do their own things- he wondered if they feared being there when he awoke. The moon was high enough in the sky for him to keep reading without lighting a candle and waking him.

_Amrod is gone, I don’t know what to do…_

_I don’t know how to help him, please tell me how to help him…_

_My own father, Finno…_

He talked to Amras all day, listening to stories about Russandol he’s never heard before, and stories about the other brothers, too. He found that there was merit in listening. Amras lit up when he talked, as if he was just a kid again, still living in the safety of Aman with the love of his parents. In turn, he told Amras about his siblings, and all of the stupid things they’d gotten up to in their youth. He described all of his favourite places to explore, and who he’d explored them with, and what they’d done when they were there.

There was one particular story, when the twins had been toddlers, and he and Russandol had taken them to a cave, where Amras has wandered off into the sea. Instead of drowning, he’d befriended an otter pup, and it was teaching him how to break open shells on rocks. He remembered it because it was the first time he’d ever seen an otter up close, as they usually just swam away at the first sight of intruders. He remembered it because at the time he hadn’t been able to tell that it was Amras who found the otter, but now he knew it in full certainty.

He didn’t mention Amrod.

_We can’t talk about him._

He didn’t want to test the waters like that.

_It hurts too much to even allude to it._

Amras was still a child; he didn’t deserve any of that. At least Argon had been an adult.

“You come of age soon, don’t you?”

“I suppose,” Amras was slightly taken aback; this was family get-together conversation, not appropriate for these situations. They sat in silence for a moment.

“I’m sorry I cut your brother’s hand off.”

Amras burst out laughing, “talk about whiplash.”

“I didn’t know where I was going with that other thing!” They were both smiling.

“By the way, you have dried blood all over yourself.”

“Ah, shit,” he hadn’t noticed. When he looked in the mirror he noticed that his stitches had come out, too; it was a stupid injury from trying to spar with Aredhel while still injured. He couldn’t move properly with his injured leg, of course he was going to get hit. It had been a terrible idea, they both agreed. She tried to stitch him up herself, but she wasn’t the healing type.

Russandol murmured something in his sleep, and they both turned to look at him.

“I think it’s going to be okay,” Amras smiled at him.

Maybe it was going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to explore more platonic bonds between characters, so I tried to direct the focus of this chapter more in that direction- especially since I hadn't really elaborated on the details of Fingon's relationship with Amras or Amrod. I think Fingon is probably beginning to see Amras very protectively, especially since I believe Maedhros would've talked a lot about him in his letters, so now he's pretty familiar (in the literal use of that word.) 
> 
> I'm actually stuck for the next few chapters, as we're getting pretty closer to Fingon's death. Aredhel and Fingolfin also both die before Fingon, so I'm not sure if I should write separate chapters for each of them, or combine them into one. I'll be covering how Fingon deals with Maedhros' PTSD regardless, though.


	5. Wishes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon mourns the deaths of some close family members.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried very hard to make this as sad as possible.

News came in a letter.

A fucking letter.

Because, of course, the idea of coming to tell him in person was much too unrealistic. It wasn’t like their sister had just died, or anything. Plenty of people were dead now- more than he had ever believed could be dead, though he doubted they were all. Still, losing Aredhel was different.

It was different even to losing Argon, because when he lost Argon, she had been there.

That month, he didn’t make the journey to visit Maedhros in Himring.

Instead, he stayed at home, in his office, hunched over his writing desk, trying to think of what to write. Trying to think about who he was even writing to. Write to Maedhros? He could get Maedhros to come to him, but that would require large scale logistical shifting and, besides, he’d already sent a messenger to tell him he wasn’t coming.

Maybe write an obituary? He couldn’t get any kind of emotion to come out, though, it was all overshadowed by frustration with his brother. He knew they weren’t as close but visiting was the least he could do. He should write a letter to Turgon. No, not while he was in that sort of mood. 

He needed to make something change.

It was like they were all dying in order of youngest to eldest; he wondered if Turgon would be the next to go. He wondered how it felt for his father to outlive two of his children.

He found himself wanting to write to Finrod, which was strange to him. He supposed they were friends; two lords of the Noldor who had crossed the Helcaraxe together. They were cousins, too, which must’ve counted for something. They weren’t close enough for him to care about offending him, and they weren’t distant enough to not be amicable, which he thought probably made for the perfect recipient.

But he still couldn’t find the words to say.

He stared at the blank sheet of parchment, watching the ink drip from his pen and pool, bleeding into patches of damp. The parchment had been damp? He fumbled for a second, trying to look for a leak somewhere in the room, before tasting salt against the tip of his tongue and realising that he was crying. He leant forward against his desk and bit his fingers, feeling sobs shaking his body. He was glad he was alone. He was glad he hadn’t made the journey to Himring.

He let himself cry for a while, before hearing a knock on the door.

“Fingon?” His father, of course.

“Give me a minute,” he wiped his eyes and tucked the damp parchment back into the draw to dry.

Life would go on.

 

* * *

 

 

He tried- he tried to imagine how Maedhros had felt. They were in the exact same position. He wondered if Maedhros had run through lists of every argument they’d ever had- if he’d counted all of the mean lies he’d yelled in anger. He wondered if he’d listed all of the things he’d never said.

And having the crown thrust onto his head so soon. Maedhros had been barely an adult, then: that was the difference. And he’d been captured so soon afterwards.

“He’ll be back soon,” Maglor was kind, Fingon had noticed; he supposed that came with the territory. Five younger brothers… And he knew Maedhros would’ve been a good influence, too. He’d laid out hot wine for them both, to give them something to do while they waited.

“Sorry I came unannounced,” he was talking more to his cup than to Maglor.

“It’s no trouble,” although the way he said it made it sound like it was definitely trouble, “Nelyo will be pleased to see you- to see that you’re okay.”

_Nelyo._ He hadn’t heard that nickname in so long, though he supposed the brothers must use it all the time. He’d been instructed by his father not to, since it was an insult to their family and it wouldn’t be proper for him to make use of it. Fingon had asked him to explain, but he’d told him he would some other time, and then Fingon had thrown a tantrum. He’d figured it out for himself some years later, but he never apologised for getting angry.

He wished he’d apologised.

“Maglor, you were acting king for a while, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Maglor took a sip of his wine.

“What was it like- how did you cope?”

“What did- how did I cope?” He frowned.

“With your father just dead.”

“Oh,” he bit his lip, “I don’t think I did cope.”

“Well, you kept your people together, didn’t you?”

“There weren’t many of us, and I had advisors, as well as four brothers,” he lowered his voice, as if he was thinking aloud, “I think we were a wreck…just finding temporary solutions, and not planning at all. We couldn’t go home, and we couldn’t settle down, so we just existed,” he cleared his throat, “anyway, why do you ask?”

“I don’t know what to do,” he sighed, “I don’t know how to react.”

Maglor nodded- he understood at least partially. Fingon wondered if he and Maglor were more similar than he thought. He wondered if, given time, he could be friends with Maglor. He wondered if he could find someone to rely on just as much as he had relied on his father. His only living male relative was in Aman. He realised people relied on _him_ now.

“I don’t want this,” he muttered, more to himself than to Maglor.

Maglor refilled his cup for him, placing a hand against his shoulder as he sat there, and gentle rubbing his back. It was a comforting gesture that he must’ve learnt to calm his younger brothers. It was something Maedhros did, too. Maglor could’ve been a good father, if he’d stayed behind. Maedhros, too.

“I need to name an heir, too, if I want any kind of security.”

“You’re going to marry?” He let go.

“No, I couldn’t,” he laughed, but it sounded almost like a sob, “I guess I’ll just adopt some kid and hope they turn out alright.”

“Don’t you want your brother to be king?”

He took a deep breath, “my sister- “his voice caught- “my sister _died_ under his watch.”

And then he felt all of the pain come back- all of the anger at his brother, and the anger at himself for being more angry than sad, and the anger that he was put in such a position. It felt like false mourning.

“Maedhros will be back soon,” Maglor’s voice was barely a whisper. They were all so close. He wondered if any of them would fail to mourn each other properly- of course not: he’d seen them after Amrod’s death. He wished he could apologise to his father for not loving his brother enough. He knew he’d be disappointed.

He desperately wanted to see him again- what he wouldn’t give for one more day with him, knowing what would happen, so that he could say everything he ever meant to, so that he could hold him close in his arms for as long as possible.

“Fingon, you’re crying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The heir part of the conversation thing is to pave the road for little Gil-Galad.


	6. Premonition.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon finds hope in a premonition.

He was a good leader, they said, he served his duty well. He was merciful, yet powerful- he followed his father’s path so closely. He read and reread every single line of text his father had ever committed to writing, learning his mind inside and out until he could sit on his throne and pretend to be him. He never allowed himself to mourn- not while he read and certainly not in the presence of others.

He felt hollow, like an empty cup whose contents had been spilled out onto the floor. Blood-red wine staining perfect white stone tiles. He felt hollow, and yet couldn’t find a way to fill the emptiness back up. He tried- he tried so fucking hard to find away to feel whole again, but there was nothing that seemed to help.

He lost control often, though it was not explosive in the way that he had expected. He felt like a child, wandering around and saying what he meant without fear- saying things just because he wanted to see how people responded. He didn’t care if they started to think less of him- he didn’t care much about anything, anymore.

He knew it was temporary.

He got a certain, definite sense, that he was dynamic- that something would happen to end this. He could feel his fate tugging at him, telling him it didn’t matter how he acted anymore. He wanted to believe it was because they were going home soon: he clung to the idea of homecoming more desperately than he’d ever clung to anything else. He wanted to believe that it was nearly over.

“Maedhros,” he breathed his words- he knew what Maedhros thought of him: _you should see someone._

 _No,_ he thought, _I shouldn’t._ After all, what was the use of seeing someone for papercut, when you knew the injury wouldn’t last? Maedhros did not think his state was temporary- Maedhros thought he lived in stasis. He supposed that he did, but only in that he was enduring until the change he sense was upon him.

“What is it?”

“Why do live?” He knew his answer already, he just wanted to hear it out loud again.

“Because you live.”

“Would you die with me?” He smiled, watching leaves rustle in the breeze through the window, he knew the question made Maedhros squirm, but there was nothing they hid from each other anymore. Maybe when they were younger they had liked keeping secrets and having parts of themselves tucked away for later use, but now there was no point in playing such games.

“I couldn’t,” he shook his head, “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” no, there was one thing he hadn’t told him.

“Then why ask?” He chuckled- this was nice. This was peaceful: sitting together in one of the quieter rooms- neither of them knew what it had originally been used for, but they had furnished it as a small dining area where they could eat together. Fingon liked to watch Maedhros eat; it reminded him that he was alive.

“I’m just double-checking,” he leant back in his chair, what would Maedhros do if he told him? Would his dismiss it? He’d probably tell him that he really should be seeing someone again. Or he’d worry; he always assumed the worst. It wasn’t that Fingon didn’t assume the worst, he’d just rather not consider it. He’d already faced the worst too many times.

How exactly would he phrase it without it sounding like he was announcing he own death?

It was better to stay quiet; he didn’t want to ruin the moment, no when Maedhros looked so peaceful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate myself for writing this :) ah, poor finno! He's not ready for what comes next!


	7. Apologies.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon fights a fateful battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suffered to bring you this. The title is also an apology from me to you and also to me because, heck, I made myself sad.

Turgon had come- he hadn’t expected it, but he had shown up before even Maedhros himself.

Where was Maedhros?

He felt a surge of relief when he saw him again- this was unusual; their sub textual feud had ended at last. This was something that had changed, at last opening the doors to an end in his torment and showing him what could be. Another thing that had changed: he had finally seen his nephew’s face. _His name is Maeglin,_ Turgon had said, though Fingon already knew, _he is one of the greatest of my people._

And he looked painfully similar to Aredhel.

He would’ve embraced the child (not child), had they not been in the midst of battle. Instead, he asked them if they’d seen Maedhros. The answer was a negative, of course. Maedhros was late. Something was wrong. Something had gone wrong. He kept craning his neck around, scanning the battlefield. He’d have rejoiced at the sight of any of the sons of Fëanor at that point, even the ones he didn’t like (which was half of them).

Was Maedhros okay?

He had no choice but to push on. He had his brother- he should’ve been grateful enough for that. It was a shame the forces of Nargothrond weren’t there to assist them, Orodreth’s might would’ve helped them greatly. He could feel cool air against his skin, caressing his cheek. He thought of his father for a moment; he had died on a day like this, surrounded by danger and fighting against the greatest enemy. He knew that the dead would be plenty already, but their forces were still strong enough to continue the assault.

Why wasn’t Maedhros there yet?

As he fought, he found himself thinking of Maedhros. He was at a disadvantage, of course, shields were harder for him to hold; it wouldn’t be hard for someone to hurt him with a long-range attack. No, that was stupid; he wouldn’t have gone to fight with no armour on. He’d never let someone get up close to hurt him, either. Then what would make the sons of Fëanor late to the party? What in the world would keep them from a battle, especially one for their father’s precious silmarils? They could’ve stopped to mourn a death, but whose? As much as he disliked some of them, he didn’t want to see any of them _dead_. But Maedhros knew when to cut his losses and carry on- he knew that mourning wasn’t worth suffering a bigger loss, however cold that sounded on paper. Fingon respected that about him. They would’ve only stopped for the death of…Maedhros.

Was Maedhros dead?

How could he have died? Who could have killed him, when he hadn’t even made it to the main battleground? Had he been poisoned? Who would’ve poisoned him- a traitor, obviously? There were traitors among their ranks; he had seen them with his own eyes. Had one of his brothers betrayed him- the idea came to him suddenly, but he found himself taken aback by how plausible it was. Making an allegiance with Morgoth to get the Silmarils from him; it sounded like something Curufin would’ve come up with. Even if he was faking this allegiance, he’d have to make it look real. He scrambled to remember if Maedhros and Curufin had been particularly close.

He felt something sharp skim his cheek- instinctively, he thrust in the direction of the attack, and another enemy fell. He reached his hand up to his brow- it was around the same place as his old sparring wound. It was a shallow cut, but his fingers still came away bloody.

He felt dizzy.

This was his first wound in years- he had gotten sloppy.

He hesitated for another moment and watched as one of his men tackled someone about to put a knife through his ribs.

He had to focus.

It was hard to focus when he was so fucking _worried._ He didn’t want things to end- he wasn’t ready to live without Maedhros. He would give anything not to live without Maedhros.

And then there he was, not so far in the distance to be unrecognisable, but far enough that he had to run to get to him. He stood alone; all of the other brothers were spread out, commanding their own teams. He called for his men to go and assist him, then he did run, and he got to him, and threw his arms around him, and kissed him hard enough that he had to take a step back to fix his balance. He didn’t care who was watching.

They fought side-by-side, in perfect unison; the way they had trained for. They watched each other’s backs, making sure to protect each other from harm. They fought like that for a while, until they caught sight of- well, whatever _it_ was coming towards them. It was a great lizard, bigger than any he had seen before, but it had wings that looked big enough for it to fly. And it was coming straight at them.

He was just able to duck out of the way, but he found himself immediately surrounded by the battle, unable to make his way back to check if Maedhros was okay. He took a shaky breath and turned his attention to the fight at hand.

And he fought.

And he fought.

And he kept fighting, for what seemed like hours.

He had no idea if they’d made progress- only that he was still fighting- every fallen enemy was replaced by another, and then another, and then another. After a while the only familiar face he could find was Turgon’s, and then after a while even his was lost.

Then he was alone.

And truly alone; his men were gone. Not dead- just gone.

And he knew.

He knew exactly what was coming.

At least he could say he faced his death without giving in. He hoped that he could at least wound one of them before they inevitably struck him down, so he fought. He fought harder and faster than he’d ever fought in his fucking life. It didn’t matter; they managed to catch him with their whip, and it made his skin singe and bubble up under the pressure of its heat. There was blood in his mouth. Hot air caressed his cheek, stinging his wound. He supposed it didn’t matter that it hadn’t healed anymore.

Were balrogs always that large?

He was sorry that he’d never fixed things with Turgon, and sorry that he never said goodbye to Maedhros, and sorry that he had been wrong. Oh, cruel prayer.

He felt pain-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice that there are still two chapters left of this story- that is because I hate sudden, sad endings (which is exactly how Fingon ended) and want to fix them. From this point onwards, everything will be headcanon only, and thus likely a lot happier than actual canon. I also may or may not update for a while, since I'm going to be starting Maglor's story and finishing Maedhros' story to bring them up chronologically to Fingon's. There will be some major time skips from here, so be warned!


	8. Non.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon finds that death isn't what he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter I have written, and I'm damn proud of it. Heads up: this is entirely my own imagining of Mandos- there as been no input from any but the most barebones of canon sources.

It was dark- darker than he’d ever known. He had only ever lived since the stars- there had always been a point of light to pierce through the thickness of the darkness.

_What do you remember?_ He felt those words as thoughts in his head- but they didn’t come from him. He lay still.

“What do I remember?” What _did_ he remember? He remembered being exhausted, tripping over the uneven ground, falling, and feeling something catching him- warm against his skin. He had thought (hoped), just for a moment, that it might be Maedhros come to help him-

It was dark. He felt nothing, but he perceived that someone was watching him from the darkness.

_It’s okay, continue when you’re ready._

He thought about Maedhros, who he hadn’t seen since they’d be separated, who he hadn’t heard from since then- who’s safety he never could confirm. He remembered climbing over the jagged rocks at the base of Thangorodrim, letting them scrape his knees and not caring, knowing the voice he heard from above, and hoping that it wasn’t the voice of a ghost. An echo of someone long gone. Maedhros had always seemed already half-dead; he’d never said it to his face, never admitted it to himself, but he was just a ghost trapped in an immortal body- ever since Angband. No- ever since the oath. All those brothers of his had seemed the same.

Was he in the void or Mandos? He couldn’t tell. He didn’t know. All he knew was this darkness that lay over him. Was Maedhros okay? Was Turgon okay? How about Maglor, Amras, Maeglin-

It was dark.

“What purpose do you serve by resetting my thoughts before I can think them?” He figured it out fast enough.

_You were becoming agitated._

“If I don’t get agitated, I won’t be able to move. I know how to deal with my emotions,” he sighed. He tried to sigh. He couldn’t feel the familiar weight of his body- that weight he’d never appreciated until it was gone. He couldn’t feel anything. This was Mandos, evidently, which meant he wasn’t going to see Maedhros again, unless if something changed drastically. That thought didn’t upset him.

“Have you taken my emotions, too?”

_It is necessary to keep you awake._

“It isn’t much like waking if I can’t feel anything,” he tried to move- he continued to feel nothing, “sorry.”

He waited as he was, listening out for any sound- he couldn’t hear anything. He couldn’t feel- couldn’t see- couldn’t hear; there was something so unimaginably cruel abut stripping someone of every sensation that existed, and then invading their mind to restrict their thoughts, as well. He wanted to scream, but he suspected that then they’d take his voice away. He would be diplomatic.

“Who are you?”

_I am here to heal you._

“Do you have a name?”

_None in the tongue that you speak._

“You’re anonymous. May I call you Non?”

_If you wish, you may call me anything._

“Tell me how this works, Non.” He wanted out of this nothing.

_I help you heal- what do you remember?_

He remembered being hopeful that Maedhros would save him, but then the warmth turned into the burning hot flame of a whip that spun itself around his body, forcing him to his knees, filling his nostrils with the scent of burning flesh- his own burning flesh-

He felt his skin prickle as the sensation return, and a sob rise in his chest as the emotions flooded back in. He felt his body flat against a layer of cool, slippery fabric, a pair of cool hands against his temples. Wind skimming over his cheeks but not stinging him. The hands drew away.

“Can I have my sight back, too?”

_It will come in time._

Then he felt the presence leave, and he was alone. He got up, holding his arms out in front of him, stumbling through the winds, falling forward so his hands grazed against the cool stone floor, but he felt no pain. He didn’t need pain anymore.

 

* * *

 

 Time passed as he regained his bearings, wandering from one end of the hall to the other. He determined he must be the only one there, because he didn’t bump into anyone. The space wasn’t that large, either- not how he had pictured the halls at all. Of course, he still couldn’t see them.

Often, he cried- usually about Maedhros, or his father, or Aredhel- sometimes just to feel the hot tears run down his cheeks. All the halls of Mandos and he was trapped in one, unable to see or hear, with only the sensation of the blowing wind to indicate any other rooms existed. He found a door, but he couldn’t find any way to open it. Sometimes he perceived that Non watched him as he tried. Non never offered him any help. They only ever asked him what he remembered- and always interrupted him before he got any further than being tied up.

He still hated that Non was in his head- that they could control even his thoughts- that there was no longer a single space that was truly his own.

_What do you remember?_

His skin seared under the heat of the Balrog’s whip. He remembered meeting its eyes- two suns, burning their gaze into his retinas- he remembered how Arien, herself, had been of the same origin as them. He remembered feeling the whoosh of the axe at the back of his head and he was amazed that he was getting this far through the memory.

Non tensed, their hands in that familiar position against his temples.

“What?”

_Continue._

He could feel the weight of the axe before it hit. The metal had been cool against his skin in the most minute of moments before damage-

_Enough._

He opened his eyes, and he saw the ceiling above him for the first time; ornately carved with abstract patterns in ink-black stone, polished until it was so reflective that he could see the red of the gossamer that made up his bed, weaving in-between pillows and furs. The room was dimly lit with gentle wisps of blue flame, but he could still make out the vibrant colours of the tapestries that hung on the walls: scenes of his own life- quieter than those that were told as stories- the memories he returned to every time he needed comfort.

He turned to look at Non, but they were already gone from sight, though he perceived they did not leave the room.

_Go. Wander as you so desire._

The door at the end of the hall swung open.

 

* * *

 

 There was never a shortage of new places to explore: Mandos was, by nature, unending. There was space for everyone that had, was, and would be dead. The hall he had woken up in was one of many- thousands—converged along the walls of a larger hall, hung with tapestries depicting all the exiles had done. He desperately wanted to talk to the people he saw- some faces familiar, some new—but he was still deaf.

The hall was made of levels of stone, each furnished with gardens that acted as a cruel mirror of Yavanna’s own- dark pools and black trees that were draped with strings of white stars, then there were the gardens of soft and fascinating plants, the floor of smooth stone covered in cool water or soft sand- everything in shades of navy, violet and grey. He wandered up the levels and peered into the open halls, looking for people he could name.

He found Aredhel and found her, lying in stasis on her back in a bed of black gossamer and velvet in a hall draped with images of her son, her family, but only one of a man he deduced to be her husband; the two of them out hunting, smiles on their faces. He studied his face in the stitches but couldn’t find a single threat to foreshadow his bad intention. He couldn’t find it in his heart to hate him.

He stayed and sat beside her as she lay there, wondering why she hadn’t yet awoken, then looking around at those tapestries of memories and realising why. He wished he could say something to her, tell her he loved her, that he was sorry he couldn’t save her; instead, he left.

He stopped looking for family after that.

He left the hall of exiles and wandered into an even greater hall, depicting scenes from the history of the Noldor. There were a few of the other exiles sparsely spread around, but the hall was empty for the most part. There were four doors- one he had come from, and three he knew he would have to walk through. One led to the followers of Finarfin- there were few people there, but those that were there wept over lost loved ones not yet dead.

The largest door led to a hall with all of the other elves, wandering, interacting. He found his eyes meeting with those of a man he had killed, and he turned back.

He made his was to the final door; the smallest and the one locked most securely. It opened for him, though. Eight doorways, each with a woven portrait hung above it in a different style to all of the other tapestries.

“Serindë…” he felt that she wasn’t there, though.

A room for each Fëanorian, he supposed. These were prepared long ago- the colours of the tapestries had faded to grey, and the wood of the doors looked weak. Then again, did it matter if these rooms would never bear residents?

It was dark.

Non’s cool hands lay against his temples.

_What do you remember?_

“Put me back there.”

_What do you remember?_

“I want to go back; the door opened for me.”

_Your wanderlust will be your demise._

“I want to see.”

_You aren’t allowed._

“Non, let me go back.”

_What do you remember?_

Cool metal, then more pain than he’d ever felt in his entire life, then darkness, then Non.

_That’s enough._ _You’re free to go now._

“Out of here?” he heard his own voice, hoarse in the darkness, and the howling wind that blew through all of the halls. He turned to look at Non but saw only two white hands floating against the darkness, disembodied from any form.

_Find your way out, and you may leave._

“What if I don’t want to leave?” Maybe something _had_ been changed drastically- maybe Maedhros _would_ be coming to the halls.

_Then linger. You may leave when you find the way out._

Non faded into the darkness, leaving him alone in his hall with the howling winds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Fingon leave? We shall see! Will he meet Maedhros? We shall also see about that! After I'm done with this series, would you guys be interested in a coffee shop au? It's almost a rite of passage, and one that I certainly need to make.
> 
> Non is a Maia of Este, working in the halls of Mandos to help the dead heal. There are about 100 like them and they share all the elven dead between them.


	9. Waiting, watching.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon muses about his time waiting for Maedhros to be reembodied, and their lives in the aftermath of their deaths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First fic I've ever completed (woo!) Fingon is a sappy boyfriend*

The waiting was the worst part. He wandered the gardens of Lórien for what his father told him were centuries, running his hands through the wisps of fragile diamante leaves that hung from silver trees. He’d chosen to serve Irmo- Irmo had chosen to let him. It wasn’t unheard of for an elf to offer devotion to one of the Valar, and to take on the role of a lesser Maia, but no one had expected it of a prince- a former king such as himself. He did it because Non told him he dreamed during that blank in his memory; he experienced deep and vibrant dreams of worlds so real he felt like they were his. Non told him they all dreamt. It was how their Fëar dealt with the damage: it was how they rested to allow themselves to heal.

He wanted to help them heal. He wanted to help Aredhel, his father, Maedhros; all of the others that still slept.

Non told him it was a noble goal.

_Well, I am a noble man._ He’d retorted with a smile.

No one ever told him how to do it, but while he was alive, he’d meet Maedhros as he slept- he meditated by the starlit pools of ink dark water—he felt like he was dreaming, too. He took time to realise that he wasn’t. He wasn’t visiting Maedhros as he slept, he was sharing a dream with him- one that only he was lucid in. Sometimes, he visited Maglor, and he watched him play. Maglor’s dreams were always about his music; they were filled with tunes more beautiful than any he had ever heard before.

Then Maedhros died, and he knew because he could no longer reach him.

Then Maglor stopped sleeping, and he knew because Non told him so.

Non told him many things- he wasn’t sure how many were true.

When he wandered the gardens with them, they wore a shimmering gossamer veil over their invisible body- covering all but their white hands—so that other visitors would not walk into them.

_So, you do have a form?_ He had asked.

_Not in the sense you believe,_ Non had replied, again in his head. He hated Non in his head. He asked Non to stop. Eventually, they did.

It pained him that he hadn’t been able to find a way to make Maedhros’ dream more pleasant.

He kept waiting.

 

* * *

 

Maedhros wandered into the gardens; he’d found his way out through one of the doors that led there. There were so many doors; they all led to where you were fated to end up. You chose the door you wanted. Maedhros had chosen the one that led to him.

_Can we choose our fate?_ He asked himself.

_Only the details,_ Non answered. In his head. _Sorry._

He looked like the day they’d gone riding, only older. So much older. His hair fell long down his back, reaching his hips (how long since it’d last been that length?), and it kept covering his face in curtains of autumn, lit with copper in the reflective light of the gardens. He stared at him with wide, caramel-soft, earth-dark eyes, mouth ever-so-slightly open. Surprise? His lips were full and his cheeks smooth. His scars were gone.

He pushed his hair out of the way when he kissed him, winding it around his fingers, and _that_ felt like home. _That_ felt like healing, at last. It felt slightly strange, not being able to feel the gentle indent of those old scars that ran through the right side of his lips; to feel two hands around his waist, instead of one; at the same time, it felt perfectly natural.

They didn’t speak when they broke away, but they held each other perfectly close.

‘Perfectly.’ But nothing was perfect- they hadn’t even had it perfect when they were young. They’d had it good, sure, but it never had, and never would be perfect. There was too much to be unhappy with, but they would have to find happiness nonetheless. Such was the nature of living.

He didn’t care who saw them; everyone knew, and it seemed like such a small thing to hide after all else they’d suffered through. Besides, neither of them were royalty anymore. There were no appearances to maintain. No gossip to avoid.

There was something freeing about giving up on their former lives.

There was something freeing in death.

He was more grateful for his life- for the body that carried him and the earth that let him walk upon its face for having believed that he wouldn’t come back. He was glad he was back. He hadn’t wanted to die. He had wanted to leave behind the life he led, sure, but he hadn’t wanted death.

Maedhros was different.

He hadn’t got what he wanted, yet he tried so hard to come back quickly; he spent so long searching for the exit.

_I figured that if you were alive, then there wasn’t any point in staying dead._

 

* * *

 

They got married with the pieces of the puzzle of their family watching- not everyone was back. Some had gone. They were a mixture of who was left and who had returned. They wore white flowers in their hair, vines sprouting with a plethora of colourful blooms woven through the hardwood arch they stood beneath, carved from cheap wood.

They wore jewellery- not jewellery (no jewels after _that_ fiasco).

Maedhros cut his hair. Not as short as he’d worn it before, but so that it only hung down to his chest, and it no longer got in the way of everything he tried to do. It was still thick- he still complained there was too much of it, but he blended in again, and that was a good thing.

They didn’t want the status they used to have. They didn’t want to stand out. No one had forgotten them, but they wanted people to look at them and see _people_ before they saw anything else.

They found a small house, with wooden walls and smooth terracotta tiles on the roof, that were home to all of the species of moss and lichen that he could dream of. It was on the edge of Formenos; a thirty-minute walk from his father’s home, and a fifteen minute one from everyone else.

He got a job teaching history to adolescents; he wanted them to know that the noldor were more than their crimes.

Maedhros studied psychology, and then therapy and crisis management. He devoted himself to Estë. He helped people get better without invading their minds.

 

* * *

 

No, things were not ‘perfect’, and they never would be, but he was happy. He was happy wandering the street routes that became muscle-memory to him, this time watching the people that crossed them. The people who, by nature, were unchanging, and yet changed so much. He was happy watching time pass the same way he watched the waves of the tides flow in and out, knowing that there were still people worth loving on the other side of the ocean.

He was happy in his classroom, telling the same stories he’d told a million times before, retorting the same insults he always had thrown at him, until those insults no longer came. He was happy finding new ways to deflect from all of the unnecessary personal questions his students asked. He was happy watching them grow, and flourish, and succeed.

He was happy defying the wishes of the Valar in small ways in his own home, joking alongside the man he’d given everything for. Joking about the pain. Time gave him his release. He was happy waiting for everyone else to come home.  

He was happy watching and waiting for things to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *HUSBAND
> 
> I'm really happy with this! As for their lives after this, I will cover them in The Tragic Hero.
> 
> Argon chose not to leave the halls, as did Turgon, instead both serving Namo, which is why I haven't specifically mentioned them here.


End file.
